James Grippando - Last to die

Jack smiled and said, “He is eight.”

“Yes, he is,” she said, sounding almost as if it overwhelmed her. She crossed the room to the coffeemaker. “Want some decaf? I made it just before you got here.”

“Yes, thanks.”

Jack took a seat. She poured two cups at the counter and then brought them to the table. She sat opposite him, next to her laptop computer.

Jack stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee and said, “I ran into Vivien Grasso tonight. The lawyer handling Sally’s estate.”

“And?”

“She wrote that letter to Tatum because he’s named in Sally’s will.”

She coughed on her coffee. Jack had told her all about Tatum, as his discussions with her were protected by the attorney-client privilege, even though Kelsey was still only a law clerk. Kelsey said, “Wait a minute. You’re saying she hired a guy to kill her, and then she named him in her will?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as bizarre?”

“Yes. Assuming that Tatum is telling me the truth.”

“Well, let’s assume that he is for the moment. Why would Sally name him as a beneficiary?”

“Could be his fee for having agreed to kill her,” said Jack. “But that’s a really goofy way to do it.”

“Could be a setup,” said Kelsey.

“How do you mean?”

“He isn’t really a beneficiary. Vivien Grasso is just saying that he is. Maybe she thinks Tatum killed Sally and she simply wants to get him in a room where she can grill him.”

“I didn’t get that impression from Vivien.”

“Or how about this? Maybe Vivien thinks that someone else in the room-one of the other beneficiaries-hired Tatum to kill Sally. It could be that the lawyer just wants to test the reaction of each of the beneficiaries when Tatum walks into the room.”

“I like the way your mind works, but I think it’s working overtime right now.”

She opened the cookie jar and passed it his way. The Oreos were all gone but the crumbs, Nate’s favorite. Jack was stuck with short-bread.

Kelsey closed up the jar and asked, “So, what do you think’s going on?”

“I’m pretty content to just go to the meeting and find out.”

“Aren’t you worried about representing a scumbag hit man?”

“No. But I am worried about representing someone who lies to me.”

“So you’ll represent a murderer but not a liar?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you won’t represent murderers or liars?”

“There’s only one kind of person whom I will categorically refuse to represent. I may or may not represent a murderer. I may or may not represent a liar. But I absolutely, positively will not agree to represent anyone who lies to me.”

“You sound like someone who’s been burned.”

“You could say that.”

“Personally or professionally?” She seemed to reconsider the question, then said, “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“It’s fine. The answer is both.”

“Do you think Tatum Knight is lying to you?”

“That’s what I’m wrestling with.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you do get involved in this.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even know this woman, so it seems almost silly to say I care. But on some level, I feel drawn into it. Her whole life’s a tragedy, really.”

He glanced at her computer and said, “Sounds like you found a few things on Sally Fenning.”

“You told me she was attacked a few years ago. But there’s more to it than that.”

“That’s all Tatum told me.”

“He left out the most important part.” She flipped through her notes, then took a moment to bring him up to speed on the original attack, the death of her daughter. Jack listened in silence, wondering why Tatum hadn’t shared these details. Assuming he knew.

“That’s horrible,” said Jack.

“Yes. It is.”

“But it might help explain some things,” said Jack. “Maybe she couldn’t cope with the murder of her only child. She marries some rich older man, thinking maybe money would make her happy. But it only makes her more miserable. So she finally hires someone to kill her.”

“Which means that perhaps Tatum is telling you the truth. She did ask him to kill her.”

“Or maybe he’s only telling me a half truth. Maybe she asked him to kill her. And he didn’t say no.”

“Possible,” said Kelsey. “Except that I don’t totally buy it.”

“Why not?” said Jack. “If something happened to Nate, God forbid, don’t you think it would at least cross your mind that life isn’t worth living?”

“Not under Sally’s circumstances.”

“How do you mean?”

“If something horrible like that happened to my child, I wouldn’t rest till the day they nailed the guy who did it.”

“You mean they never caught the guy who killed Sally’s daughter?”

“Never even an arrest. This afternoon I called to see if I could pull the file out of police archives, but I got nowhere. It hasn’t been archived. It’s still technically an open investigation.”

“Interesting,” said Jack, the wheels turning in his head. “This woman suffers the worst tragedy imaginable. Her four-year-old daughter is murdered viciously in her own home. Five years go by, she’s just gotten her hands on forty-six million dollars, compliments of her second husband, and that’s when she decides that life isn’t worth living.”

“Assuming Tatum is to be believed.”

“That’s the big assumption,” said Jack.

“So what are you going to do?”

“The meeting with Vivien Grasso is Monday. That doesn’t leave me a lot of time, so I guess I’ll do the only thing I can.”

“Dump the case, move on?”

“No way.” He took one last hit of coffee, then looked her in the eye and said, “I’m going to find out if Tatum Knight is believable.”

First thing Saturday morning, Theo Knight drove to Mo’s Gym on Miami Beach.

The Beach had a long boxing tradition, dating back even before a young and overconfident Cassius Clay trained and fought there to snatch the world heavyweight title away from the most feared champion of his era, Sonny Liston. Mo’s was a no-frills facility that catered strictly to amateurs. Not the kind of amateurs who flocked to self-defense classes after the September 11 terrorist attacks. These were serious tough guys, amateurs only in the sense that they had no license to box and didn’t at all aspire to be the next Muhammad Ali. They just loved to go at it, man to man, and Mo’s was good training for the more important fighting they did outside the ring. Anyone who walked into Mo’s had better know the ropes, so to speak, and he had better not freak at the sight of his own blood.

Theo found a chair near the center ring, where his brother, Tatum, was beating the holy hell out of someone who obviously had no idea who the Knight brothers were.

Theo and Tatum had fought plenty, no ring, no gloves, no glory. Toughing it out with gangs wasn’t exactly the life Theo would have chosen for himself, but the illegitimate sons of a drug addict didn’t have many choices. Their aunt did her best to raise Theo and his older brother, but with five of her own, it wasn’t easy. Tatum was always introuble, and Theo inherited a bad-boy reputation and a slew of enemies without even trying. Not that Theo was a saint. By the time he’d dropped out of high school, he’d done his share of car thefts, small-time stuff. Compared to Tatum, he was the good brother-until the night he’d decided to help himself to a little cash in a convenience store and walked into a living nightmare. It was the kind of trouble people expected of Tatum, not Theo. Over the years, he’d managed to push that night into a corner of his brain that he never visited. But as he sat there watching his brother pulverize his opponent, he found his mind slipping back in time, the memories spurred on by the smells and sights of Mo’s, the fighting all around him, the gang graffiti on the walls, the walk and talk of dead-end kids.